


Recoil

by Roehrborn



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: "Enemies", Canon-Typical Violence, Dadwald, Enemies to Lovers, Family, Fluff, Forgiveness, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Kidnapping, Love, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Redemption, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-07 22:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12851199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roehrborn/pseuds/Roehrborn
Summary: When Martin Cobblepot goes missing, Gotham’s underworld screeches to a halt.





	1. Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> I know Dadwald is going to end in tears, but I’m just here to have a good time. (Well--maybe this is a fix-it in disguise.)
> 
> Rating may change, since I’m not entirely positive where I’m going with this.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!  
> ~R

There are not many times that Edward Nygma feels at a total loss.

But Oswald Cobblepot has a hand around his throat and pain and desperation in his stormy-sea eyes and Edward hasn’t even _done_ anything.

“Where _is he_?” Oswald demands, half a shout and half a plea, his eyes too watery. “What did you _do_?”

Edward’s heart plunges down into his gut for some unknowable reason. He struggles slightly against Oswald’s grip, bringing his hand up and clinging to Oswald’s wrist. He’s not about to be choked out by his best friend-turned-nemesis-turned-stranger in his own hideout--such an ignoble end to the Riddler is _unconscionable_.

“Who?” Edward gasps. Oswald’s hand tightens on his throat, cruelly, and Edward digs his fingernails into the skin of Oswald’s wrist.

“Don’t play dumb with me! Who _else_ would have taken him?”

“ _Who_?” Edward repeats.

“ _Martin_ ,” Oswald says, frantic, and doesn’t that explain it _all_.

There’s a bitter twist in Edward’s chest and he responds, petulantly, before he can think better of it: “I haven’t done anything with your precious mini-you. Maybe he ran away because he was sick of _dealing_ with you.”

The look of _pain_ on Oswald’s face makes Edward feel both guilty and vindicated. Oswald releases him abruptly, and Edward reaches up to touch his throat with a rueful wince. He’d forgotten what a _grip_ Oswald has. It certainly hasn’t diminished in the five... _six_ years, now, since they’d been friends.

“If there is... _any_ respect left between us,” Oswald says quietly, his gaze focused on the cement flooring, “would you tell me now? Do you _know_ who took him? Or where he might be?”

Edward rubs his neck thoughtfully. His skin is hot where Oswald had been gripping. He almost imagines he can feel the imprint of Oswald’s hands. It’s a strange sensation.

“What goes up but doesn’t come down?” Edward asks finally. Oswald lets out a frustrated huff, and Edward continues: “Age. I wouldn’t kidnap a child. Most-- _some_ of us have standards.”

Oswald nods sharply, a single up-down movement. His gaze is still fixated on the floor.

Edward purses his lips and takes a several side steps, putting a few feet between Oswald and himself. “Any of the true rogues, I think, would be out. I think you’re looking for a gang.”

With a movement so sudden it startles him, Oswald looks up to meet his eyes. They’re so _piercing_ , shallow pools filled to the depths with pain. That expression is _familiar_ and uneasily Edward wards off the haunting press of memories.

“Why’s that?” Oswald asks roughly.

Edward inhales deeply. “Every rogue _I’m_ familiar with is inordinately fond of the boy. I’m sure you’d say the same of _your_ social circle.”

Oswald nods, expression somewhat numb.

“Even the ones who hate you the most like him. So…they know he chooses to stay with _you_.”

Oswald nods again, wordlessly.

Edward bites his lip to stall himself, but the words escape anyway: “Why _does_ he stay with you?”

_That_ snaps Oswald out of his daze; he looks up at Edward with baleful eyes. “And how is that any of _your_ business, _Ed_?”

It’s fascinating how Oswald can manage to turn his name into an insult. Is it because of the way he speaks? Or because of their shared past? “Could help explain where he’s gone.”

With a grimace Oswald steps in close, his eyes darting over Edward’s expression with bitter determination. “That’s none of your business, Ed,” Oswald says icily. “But if he’d gone on sabbatical, he would have _told_ me.”

Edward holds his hands up in surrender, and Oswald subsides slightly.

“How do I know you’ve been telling the truth?” Oswald asks finally.

“I can only keep it once I give it to you,” Edward says.

And Oswald nods, thoughtfully, and turns to go.

“Don’t you want to know what it is?” Edward calls after him as he walks away.

“It’s your word,” Oswald says flatly. When the door shuts behind him, Edward feels the echoing silence in his wake.

~

The last time Edward had seen Oswald Cobblepot before this night was at the celebration of Bruce Wayne’s 21st birthday. They hadn’t even been in the same room--Oswald had been in the Wayne Manor’s ballroom, chatting easily with the young heir, while Edward had been outside the building and on his way up.

Upstairs, he knew, lay the key to a certain mystery that had been plaguing him for quite some time. But instead of continuing to shimmy up the side of the wall, he paused there and simply _observed_.

Oswald had laughed and clinked glasses with young Bruce Wayne, a sharp expression on his face. Predatory but congenial, regardless. Edward knew that Oswald and the upstart party-boy had a bit of a rapport--and that fact was a little like a puzzle in and of itself.

The answer to which may or may not have been upstairs.

Then from behind Oswald _he_ stepped up. The mini-Penguin. Even Bruce Wayne’s body language changed, becoming a little less lackadaisical and a little more open, welcoming. The mini-Penguin pushed some of the curls off of his forehead and eyed the Wayne heir up and down, perhaps a little dubious, and Oswald had laughed openly and clapped him on the shoulder in a gesture of fond amusement.

Oswald had signed something, in ASL, Edward supposed--and the boy had signed back quickly before taking the half-full champagne glass out of Oswald’s hand and placing it onto the tray of a passing waiter. Oswald had shaken his head but his smile hadn’t diminished--then he’d turned to Wayne and begun chattering on about something or other, his hand resting fondly on the mini-Penguin’s shoulder.

And Edward had felt sick to his stomach. He was _angry_ at the sight. But why?

That couldn’t be-- _jealousy_?

What did _he_ have to be jealous of? The awkward boy, dressed smartly (by Oswald’s tailor, no doubt) and attempting to stand in Oswald’s shadow, despite the fact that he was a very obvious three inches taller?

Edward had gritted his teeth and torn his eyes away and thought no more about it, making his way upstairs, for the answers to the puzzle that had been plaguing him for _years_.

~

He could claim it’s a coincidence that he finds himself at the Crow’s hideout that night. That they’ve been on his radar for some time. That he’s been _waiting_ for an opportunity to bamboozle them.

But that would be a lie.

Edward is there because the Crows have a history of kidnapping and the exact lack of _respect_ for the way Gotham’s underground operates that would be required for someone to kidnap the Penguin chick.

He leaves their hideout four hours later, his second-best suit no doubt _ruined_ with blood and viscera, disappointingly empty-handed and answerless. He tells himself that he would have used the boy as a bartering chip to _finally_ gain access to some of the Penguin’s amenities, the ones that have been, at some time or another, available to _every_ criminal in Gotham _except_ Edward Nygma.

But that is a lie, too.


	2. Recommendation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe Dadwald didn’t end in tears. It’s is the best thing that’s ever happened in the entire show.
> 
> However I was expecting to have to fix canon and now I don’t have to, so I’m somewhat at a loss. :P  
> ~R

He dreams of tutoring Martin.

He dreams of holding the even-weighted knife in his palm, Martin looking up at him with those serious brown eyes, that curiously furrowed brow.

_What did I tell you, Martin?_

Of course Martin does not answer aloud. He signs, too quickly for Oswald to read, but he knows what it means in that curious dream-sense: _You said that man hurt you. But you let him go._

_Same as I would do for you if you ever tried to kill me._

Martin stares at Oswald, uncomprehending. They are standing in the GCPD headquarters and Oswald feels eyes on the two of them. He straightens his shoulders.

_Martin,_ he begins, then stops. _Martin, did you know that male emperor penguins keep their eggs warm by balancing them on their feet?_

Martin shakes his head and holds out his hand, waiting. Oswald takes the boy’s hand in his. He’s at the awkward stage of growth that Oswald never got to see: still very much a child, but tall and solid-seeming, regardless.

He tugs Oswald, bringing him back past the bullpen, past the holding cells, back to a little door with a hazy glass window square. It’s one of the labs, Ed’s one-time workplace.

Long shadowy fingers pass across the glass and the air grows colder. Oswald shivers, and exhales sharply. He can see his breath as a fine mist.

_I’m afraid he’ll hurt you,_ Martin signs, though Oswald isn’t looking at him.

_He can’t anymore,_ Oswald whispers. _I just had to make sure he didn’t hurt_ you.

_He’s not trapped inside anymore._ Oswald knows that Martin isn’t referring to the lab. _He got out of his cage. He can get you_ anywhere _, now._

Oswald tilts his head to meet Martin’s dark, serious eyes. His little worried frown. Oswald feels a sharp pinprick of pain, betrayal, _love_ , right underneath his heart.

_You’re_ my _son,_ Oswald whispers. _Why do you look so much like him?_

Martin chews at his lip, nervously, and and blinks his attentive brown eyes solemnly. _Father, do you believe in fate?_

~

“Th-there’s nothing more we can do!”

It’s a pity that just _gutting_ the man and having him replaced will only delay the search. Oswald bares his teeth and tightens his grip on the man’s collar, tugging his face a little closer to Oswald’s own, watching as his eyes widen in fear.

“I am not a forgiving man, Detective Wallace,” Oswald says lowly, and the stern man’s upper lip trembles, almost dislodging a droplet of sweat. Oswald’s lip curls in distaste.

“Commissioner Gordon insists that we--”

“I don’t _care_ about your budgets and spreadsheets!” Oswald snarls, and with a sharp shove he sends the taller man stumbling back toward the far wall of his living room. He clips a coffee table on the way crumples like a used tissue.

Before Oswald can stalk toward him, he hears a slowly-applauding pair of hands from behind him.

“Nice aim,” says the familiar voice, and Oswald rolls his eyes.

“Are you here to make my life more difficult?” Oswald asks, not bothering to face the newcomer. “Or simply to observe?”

“What can fly without wings?” The voice is closer, now.

“Time.”

Oswald can _hear_ Ed’s wordless surprise: he hadn’t expected Oswald to know, let alone to guess so quickly.

“You’re wasting it,” Ed opines finally.

Finally deigning to turn, Oswald faces the man with a dubious look on his face. Ed is dressed unexpectedly serenely in a shimmering metallic green suit. His expression defies classification: it’s not one of his usual “Riddler-grins”, but neither is it condescending or even intrigued.

“Listen, _Ed_ ,” Oswald says. He’s speaking in his false-friend voice and wearing his false-friend expression, but he cannot bring himself to call Ed that--call him “friend”. When the word crosses his lips it feels too true. “If I wanted your advice I would ask for it.”

Ed frowns, and Oswald feels a jolt pass through him like pure liquid _hate_.

“Detective Wallace here just needs a _reminder_.” Oswald speaks loudly; this is directed as much at the semi-conscious man as it is at Ed. “He’ll do well to remember who I am and what I _do_.”

Wallace makes a muffled noise. Oswald ignores him, maintaining eye contact with Ed, who stares back at him, just as absorbed. “ _Jim Gordon_ may be his superior, but I have brought Gotham to its knees before, and I am not afraid to do so again.”

Ed takes a step toward him, seemingly thoughtlessly. He catches himself and halts once again. “Did you tell him to refocus his sights on the gangs?”

Oswald scowls. He doesn’t know what to _make_ of Ed. It’s been a long time since they were true enemies, but he can’t remember the last time they exchanged more than a disgruntled nod in greeting. And Ed has never seemed particularly fond of _any_ children, let alone _Oswald’s_ son. “Yes. Apparently they’d already been tipped off to that.”

“The Bat?” Ed queries, and Oswald nods once, sharply. “It’s a wonder the detective here can tie his own _shoes_ without the caped crusader’s insight.”

“Well I don’t care,” Oswald snaps, “so long as it helps Martin.”

“In that vein...you can cross the Crows off your list.”

“You paid them a visit?” Ed grins as an answer. Oswald frowns. “I didn't think you'd do that.”

“Children shouldn't be used as pawns. Or are you too good for little old me’s help?”

Oswald wishes suddenly that he’d kept better tabs on Ed. After the two of them called their unofficial ceasefire, he’d thought it best to forget Ed ever existed. The fact that Ed was always, and _will_ always, be his weak spot, had struck him as pathetically unfair, and he’d tried to eradicate it by pretending that there was no Edward Nygma, that they’d never been friends. But he feels like he doesn’t know how to _read_ him anymore, and that may prove more dangerous than harboring the embers of the most passionate love he’s known.

“...So long as it helps Martin,” Oswald says finally, voice cool.

Ed’s response is low and smoothly wrathful, like a stalking wildcat’s. “So you haven’t received any recent threats?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Mind if I be the judge of that?” Ed asks.

For a moment, Oswald considers saying no. But the love he’d once felt for Ed is more than eclipsed by the love and _responsibility_ he feels now for Martin. He won’t be led astray. He can use Ed’s expertise and give him whatever he likes in exchange; the use of the Penguin’s safehouses, perhaps.

Regardless. For Martin, Oswald is willing to risk it.

“Certainly,” Oswald tells him. “Come with me.”

Oswald spares a glance toward Detective Wallace, curled in the fetal position in his own living room. He’ll get up soon enough. Probably make a frantic call to _Commissioner_ Gordon.

Good. Oswald hopes that the thought of his subordinates being threatened _burns_.


	3. Resemblance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wish I could make more allusions when inventing antagonists for my fics but I know so little about the comics. :( Anyway, enjoy!  
> ~R

The last time he had been at the Iceberg Lounge, four months ago, Oswald had been notably absent. Had Edward contrived the little uprising at one of his distribution centers by the wharf, thus ensuring his absence? Impossible to say.

Cat slid onto the barstool beside him, settling in with the lithe, predatory ease he’d come to expect from her. She ordered a white Russian and he waited in silence for her to speak.

“It’s a little weird that you have a one-sided vendetta against a preteen.”

Edward frowned into his grasshopper. “It’s not a _vendetta_.”

From out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cat’s lip twitch. A smile or a scowl? He was uncertain. “What would you call it, then?”

Edward turned his head and sneered down at her. “ _Information gathering_. I’ve haven’t harmed a curly hair on his precious little head.”

Cat rolled her eyes. “You’ve never even talked to him, have you? He’s the sweetest kid.”

“I see no need--”

“Hey, Martin!” Cat called over him, waving her hand. “Come join us!”

It felt like ice had been directly injected into his veins. “I have to go,” he insisted, half-rising from his seat.

Cat’s sudden grip on his forearm was like iron, and he, fey, was ensnared by it. “Uh-uh. No, you don’t. He’s a little angel. Or haven’t you noticed how much Pengy has mellowed out?”

“Of course I haven’t noticed, I never speak to him--”

And then _he_ arrived. A young boy, dressed _so_ much like Oswald that it created a physical resemblance where there was none. His expression was curious, amused, almost; as his dark eyes slid from Cat to Edward, it became irreversibly clear that he knew _exactly_ who Edward was. Edward felt his left hand clench into a fist, fingernails digging into the palm of his hand.

The terrifying, terrifying truth of looking into Martin’s face was that it was all too familiar--features too like his own, youthful innocence coupled with something _darker_ \--the verbal scars of a fraught childhood, Martin not speaking and Edward speaking too _much_ \--and unquestioning devotion to someone Edward had long thought impossible to trust...

“Nice to meet you,” he bit out, and wrested his arm from Cat’s grip so suddenly that even she was taken off guard. He made a sharp bow and then fled.

~

Edward isn’t sure who’s handling Oswald’s paperwork these days, but whoever it is ought to be fired. _Literally_. He tells the older man as much.

“Well, they can’t all be genius supervillains,” Oswald sighs. “Did you _find_ something?”

Edward can’t tell whether it’s a compliment, an insult, or both, or _neither_ , so he bites back an automatic retort and says instead: “Everyone has me and no one can lose me. Was the abduction violent?”

“No.” Oswald says. “He’s not my _shadow_ , Edward; he’s his own person.”

He feels his own lip twitch; there’s something bubbling under the surface of his skin, but _what_ , he doesn’t know. “Point being that he has a security detail and your undivided attention. If he disappeared out from under them, it’s more likely than not you have a mole.”

“Edward,” Oswald sighs. His shoulders drop and his gaze fixes onto the hardwood floor. “He’s _fourteen_. He’s prone to giving them the slip on occasion. But he always _returns_.”

“What’s more likely,” Edward counters, “that he gave them the slip, wandered too far away to get back to them, _and_ out of earshot, because if the abduction was violent, there _would_ have been noise, even if not from him--or, your _hired arms_ were willing to hand him off to someone who works for you, never assuming that he might be in danger? And learning that he did, in fact, thereupon disappear, decided that they’d like to preserve their _own_ hides from your trail of carnage?”

He can see in the defensive line of Oswald’s shoulders that he’s considering it. Edward spreads his hands out over the paperwork before him, his knee bouncing uncontrollably but hopefully unnoticeable underneath the desk.

The system of organization is all _wrong_ and the longer Oswald stays quiet, the harder it becomes to ignore. He reaches out with one hand and begins to shuffle one disorderly pile--he’s already codified them mentally, if he can just--before Oswald notices--

“Incompetence or malicious intent on the part of my security forces,” Oswald says, voice quiet and dire. “Those are my options?”

Edward doesn’t look up at him. Can’t, for some reason. “You’ve trained your staff to be afraid of you,” Edward comments. It’s not quite a counter; merely an observation. “ _Everyone_ knows what he means to you.”

“Is that criticism? Ed, I can’t believe that you of _all_ people--”

“ _Neither_ of us can acquire respect without fear,” Edward snarls, and Oswald falls abruptly silent. “Believe me, I am _all_ too aware of _that_.”

The room is preternaturally quiet. It’s soundproofed well enough that no outside noise enters; Edward isn’t even sure if Oswald is _breathing_. He strains his ears, but hears nothing.

“Anyway,” Edward says forcefully. For some reason, he still can’t bring himself to look up at Oswald. “I have a lead. More or less.”

That incites a sharp inhale. “Why didn’t you _open_ with that?”

“Because he’s in no danger--they’re holding him for ransom, just waiting for you to get frantic enough to start making mistakes. They know you well enough to know that you’d instantly attempt to get him back on your own terms, so they’re only hoping to stay entirely out of sight and mind until you exhaust yourself searching.”

“And?”

“And finding them should be easy, now that I know who the mole is.”

“The charm of your obtuse answers has already _long_ run dry, Ed.” There’s a fizzling warmth in Edward’s chest--it’s so familiar, and _not_ , Oswald impatiently demanding Ed’s assistance. It was strange, wasn’t it, that the memories bled into all other parts of his life? They had only been together for a few months in harmony, and yet-- “Ed, are you _trying_ to frustrate me?” Oswald snaps, but there’s an undercurrent to his tone that causes Edward to look   
back up at him, finally.

Oswald’s eyes are pinched at the corners. Edward can see latent fear there, but the rampant, destructive terror of earlier is temporarily assuaged by Edward’s reassurance. The other emotions? Indefinable.

Edward blinks forcefully. “Just thinking,” he says. “If I give you his name you’ll go after him, won’t you?”

Oswald throws his arms into the air. “That’s the _point_!”

“No, the _point_ is to get the Penguin chick home safe.” The words leave his mouth before he really registers them, and he snaps his mouth back shut as Oswald stares at him, dumbfounded.

“‘Penguin chick’?” Oswald repeats.

“We can’t afford to tip him off,” Edward interjects. “It waits until nightfall.”

“Did you nickname Martin ‘the Penguin chick’?” Oswald pursues doggedly.

Edward bristles. “I have some errands of my _own_ to run. I’ll return here when night falls, and then we’ll go together.”

Oswald bares his teeth. “And how can I trust you to return?”

Edward sighs, nearly inaudibly. He’s disappointed, but rationally, he knows he has no reason to be. “Why trust me with this in the _first_ place?”  
With a reserved up-and-down glance, Oswald nods and subsides; Edward’s heart is in his throat as he rises to his feet and leaves the Iceberg.

He doesn’t have any errands to run, not really--but being in Oswald’s presence like this, he already feels himself falling, irreversibly. _Something_ has begun to creep over him like ice--and when it consumes him, he thinks he might be as much a prisoner of Oswald as he had been when he was a statue.


	4. Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently Martin’s actor is billed for 4x17. I’m half terrified, half elated.
> 
> In the meantime, enjoy!  
> ~R

The prodigal villain returns some five hours later, endless minutes since the sun has sunken over the horizon. The chill has settled in the air and deep into Oswald’s bones, weighing him down.

It feels both familiar and foreign when he’s around Ed. When they’re planning. He knows Ed so well, now, and yet not at all, just as he had when they’d first met. The only difference is that he no longer trusts his instincts around Ed; before, he’d given in to the delight that flooded him when Ed grinned, never supposing that the grin would turn malicious and vindictive.

“You need to be the one,” Oswald says reluctantly as Ed hangs up his coat in the entryway to his office.

“The one what?” Ed asks. He turns his dark eyes on Oswald.

“You said they _know_ me.” Oswald has to get it all out now. He _hates_ the thought but it’s the only way...the only way to keep Martin safe. “They’ll be expecting me. I need to pretend to negotiate with them while you sneak in and break him out.”

Ed tilts his head to the side like a curious dog. “I wouldn’t have expected…”

“The priority is Martin.”

The taller man blinks at him and puts his hands in his trouser pockets, ruining the lines of his shimmery green suit. “And if their plan was, in fact, to ransom Martin for _you_ rather than your fortune or kingdom?”

Sometimes it seems Ed may have forgotten their shared history. “That’ll make your exit very _easy_ , then.”

Ed glances down; his lashes flutter and a frown crosses his lips.

“If they catch you, you can pretend to be willing to work with them--no one will suspect that we’ve joined forces,” Oswald adds--the pièce de rėsistance.

Based on Ed’s mulish expression, he can find no faults with the plan, but is displeased regardless. No doubt he was frustrated that Oswald had come up with it first; the man never shirked a chance to create a plan. _I hate to disappoint_ , Oswald thinks, acerbically. _You want me fawning all over your genius, don’t you?_

“Any objections?” Oswald demands at Ed’s continued silence.

“If...they _do_ capture you, whatever their purpose might be,” Ed begins slowly. His eyes are focused on the far wall. “What do I do with him?”

“Kindly return him here,” Oswald replies. “What else would you do with him?”

“What about--my reward?” Ed insists. “We don’t have anything in writing. We haven’t discussed terms.”

“If you spirit him away from certain doom, Martin will see to something. He would probably be more generous than I, in fact.”

“And what about your second-in-command?” Ed’s fishing. Oswald smirks, amused.

“I have both a living and last will, and both of those name Martin sole heir. He will see to whatever compensation he deems appropriate. So. To both you and I, Martin is the priority. Do you see now?”

“You’re--” Edward blurts and then cuts himself off. He narrows his eyes. “Are you trying to convince me _not_ to try to save you?”

“The priority is Martin,” Oswald repeats coolly. He’s not sure if that expression on Ed’s face is disbelief, but it’s starting to get old. “ _Now_ will you tell me who has him?”

~

He should have sent someone.

But ever since Victor, he’d been reluctant to trust any one person, and sending an envoy up to greet Martin only would have drawn his enemies’ attention to the boy. So he was forced to wait in the towncar, anxiety fizzling in his bloodstream.

Would the boy remember him? Of course he would, wouldn’t he? Oswald didn’t have a lot of experience with children, but surely Martin wouldn’t have forgotten him some two and a half years later?

But what if it hadn’t been enough time? What if it had been too much? What if Martin _didn’t_ understand--what if Martin _hated_ him?

There was a rap on his window, and he leaped in his seat before rolling it down.

The eyes that gazed back at him were teary and dark. Martin’s lips were trembling, as if he was holding back tears. Before he knew what he was doing, Oswald was unlocking the car door and shoving it open.

Martin threw his arms around his shoulders and tumbled into his lap with abandon, his shoulders--far more broad than Oswald remembered!--shaking as he sobbed. Oswald wrapped his arms around the boy and yanked the car door shut.

It was many hours later, safely ensconced in the sitting room of his family manor, that they finally had a talk. Martin had regaled him with pages and pages of stories, about his foster family, about his schooling, about his minions. Oswald had sat and read them all, enjoying the warmth from the fire and the warmth in his chest.

And still later, Martin fell asleep on the couch, his chest rising and falling with his breath. Oswald had roused him after a moment, knowing he would be too heavy to lift, and led him upstairs to the room he’d had made up for him.

He had Martin change in the ensuite and sat with him as the boy climbed into bed. Before he could pat the mattress and take his leave, Martin held out his little notebook, his face determined and open. Oswald took it, and looked down at the words on the top sheet.

_Thank you._   
_Goodnight, Dad._

There was a faint line and then a harsh stroke through the “D” in “Dad”, as if Martin had begun writing hesitantly and then charged forward with determination. Oswald felt tears burning in his eyes as he spoke, and his voice came out wobbly and proud.

“Goodnight. My boy.”

Martin flashed him an ecstatic, sleepy grin, and turned over in his bed, settling on his side.

Oswald keeps the note in the bottom left drawer of his desk, underneath a false bottom.

~

There was a time when Oswald _never_ entered any altercation or potential altercation without an ace up his sleeve. Eventually, that grew untenable; the more people knew Oswald’s name and reputation, the more closely he was watched. Though he is still underestimated on occasion, it’s very rare that he manages to slip the ace in unnoticed.

He does have one now, but unfortunately it’s an unruly, out-of-sight ace, that he can only hope will prove reliable and competent enough for the job.

Still, Oswald waits the alloted seven minutes; then, flicking the hidden switch on his cane, he slips into the side door of the warehouse.

Ed estimated four to six: there are four in the little camp in the middle, with one standing guard by the main entrance. Accurate as always.

He waits until he’s clear of cover, in close enough to the center of the room. They _still_ haven’t spotted him. If they’re trained, it wasn’t by any of _his_ people.

“Hello, gentlemen! And lady,” Oswald calls. “I believe you have something of mine!”

Five equally dumbfounded faces turn as one to stare at him. He grins, and holds his left arm out, bent at the wrist. His right points his cane toward the larger group in the middle, the tip of his cane glinting faintly. “I’d get talking if I were you,” he orders, sharply, and feels a thrill in his chest as they all but _scamper_ to attention.


	5. Ransom

The metal vent creaks ominously underneath his hands and knees.

Despite his discomfort with the situation, it’s probably for the best that Oswald is posing as the distraction. He’s not sure Oswald would be able to traverse these vents--but Oswald has proven himself capable of the impossible time and time again, hasn’t he? So perhaps it’s best not to assume.

The impossible, like--coming back from the dead, like taking over Gotham, like banishing the voices--things that Edward only ever realized should have been impossible in retrospect.

He reaches the right junction and shifts around so that his feet are pointing forward toward the grating. He presses his feet together and slams them both down as hard as he can, three times in succession, until the grate bends and falls to the floor with a clatter. Edward swings down a heartbeat after, landing gracefully on his feet in a well-practiced move.

He was right. There’s no guard outside the door-- _amateurs_ \--although it is locked from the outside. With an almost disappointed huff Edward pulls out his lockpicking kit and sets to work. As he does, he wonders what he will find inside--will Martin be afraid? Will Martin trust him? Certainly the boy knows who he is, but will that prove a hindrance or a help? He hopes he won’t have to incapacitate him. Oswald wouldn’t like that, he’s sure.

And then the lock clicks and the door swings open under his palm.

He’s greeted with a solid kick to the gut.

He stumbles back, his breath escaping him a wheeze as he doubles over. “That _hurt_!” he gasps out indignantly. Then he looks up, and he’s eye-to-eye with Martin.

The boy’s eyes are wary and fearful, but upon recognizing Edward he relaxes slightly and signs something.

Edward suddenly wishes he’d put a concerted effort into learning ASL. He’d studiously ignored Martin’s relative importance in the grand scheme of things, and in the more specific scheme of things. “What has an eye, but cannot see?”

Martin blinks quizzically, and signs something back.

“I don’t--I mean I don’t know ASL. Sorry. I’m here to, ah, rescue you I guess? Oswald’s keeping your kidnappers busy.”

Martin straightens at the sound of Oswald’s name. He begins to sign, urgently, then halts, a look of irritation crossing his face.

“Didn’t you have a notepad?”

Martin pats his empty pockets demonstratively.

“They took it? Ah.”

Martin looks up, then double-takes at the ceiling, where Edward kicked through the vent. He points up at it, hesitantly, and Edward nods. “Good thing you’re still little enough. Here.” Edward drops to a knee and pats his own shoulder. “Step up, step up,” he says under his breath, almost compulsively.

The vent is some eight feet up but with their combined height Martin can reach it. He pulls himself up, his feet disappearing and then, a brief moment later, the curly top of his head and a hand reappears.

“No, thank you,” Edward tells him. “I have my own means. Back up for a moment, will you?”

The little gadget he borrowed from Cat works just as it’s supposed to, slotting into the vent and providing enough support for him to shimmy up the rope. He imagines Cat looks rather more dignified doing it, though; his legs are a bit too long and they dangle.

Then they’re up: mission accomplished. Edward points Martin in the correct direction and they begin to crawl out of the vent together. The silence wears on Edward immediately, but there’s no helping that.

~

_COBBLEPOT CLEARED_

“May I borrow your newspaper?”

The man looked up at Edward and shrugged. “Yeah, sure,” he said, nodding toward the folded newspaper on the bench beside him.

With inexplicably trembling fingers, Edward reached for the newspaper. It was warm and smelled very _newspapery_ ; the late spring sun was beating down on his shoulders even through the layers of smog.

_COBBLEPOT CLEARED_

_by Olivia Ortega_

_To those who may not recall, Oswald Cobblepot, former Mayor of Gotham and former proprietor of the Iceberg Lounge, was convicted of the murder of an orphan boy who was under his care. Just yesterday, the boy has been found alive._

_This revelation casts doubt on newly appointed Captain Jim Gordon’s methods and the legitimacy of due process. Cobblepot is currently listed as a missing person after his shocking escape from Arkham Asylum several weeks ago. With his name cleared, will he be free to seize back his assets? The Iceberg Lounge was purchased from the city and renovated by none other than Barbara Kean, Gotham socialite and--_

The paper fell from stiff hands and spiraled to the ground, unfolding as it went. Edward shuddered. He was _boiling_ in his heavy suit.

He refused to consider how this might change his perception of Oswald these past few weeks, when they’d all been working to overthrow Sofia Falcone. It didn’t change a thing. Oswald was the same cruel, vindictive man he’d always been, false convictions notwithstanding.

But both times Oswald had been sentenced to Arkham, they’d been for crimes he didn’t commit. For some reason, that made Edward’s heart pang in his chest. But he swallowed down the bile and straightened his suit jacket and resolved to think no more about it.

A few weeks later, the city tipped back to status quo. Oswald was king of Gotham once again and there was certainly no boy--Oswald was as alone and friendless as ever.

Two and a half years later, he saw a photograph of Oswald in a newspaper, and by his side had been a curly-haired boy, tall for his age, with a somber and attentive expression. The Oswald in the photo was smiling down at him, expression fond and proud.

_Oswald Cobblepot and son, Martin,_ the caption had read. Edward’s mouth had gone dry and he’d thrown the newspaper away without another glance.

~

Edward drums his fingers on the steering wheel. He looks down at his watch. He heaves a shuddering, frustrated sigh as he notes the time.

“I’m going to go check he’s alright,” Edward informs Martin, glancing at him through the rearview mirror. “You wait here.”

Martin shakes his head once, emphatically.

“Yes, I am.”

Martin points at himself.

“No, Oswald said _you_ were the priority. That still holds,” Edward says waspishly. He pulls open his car door and steps out onto the asphalt. He doesn’t think about the obvious contradiction in what he just said and what he’s about to do. He has no guarantee Martin will pay up. _Of course_ he has to go after Oswald.

Martin steps out of the backseat, determined frown on his face and his hands clenched into fists. Edward points at the car, but Martin reaches out, quick and startling, and smacks Edward’s hand down.

“Rude!” Edward exclaims helplessly, but Martin ignores him, marching toward the warehouse entrance with a strangely familiar odd cadence. He’s not limping--but he may as well be. His stride is uneven. Edward stares after him, trapped in place, until Martin whirls on his heel and holds his hands out as if to say: “Well?!”

Edward immediately jogs after him, shaking off the strange press of memories as effectively as he can. There’s a job to do.


	6. Reason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING: Allusions to torture in the flashback. Nothing worse than canon.**
> 
> (I haven’t watched anything past 4x11 so there is no longer an attempt to keep things loosely accurate to canon.)
> 
> Sorry for the delay, but the rest of the chapters are drafted and being edited now!  
> ~R

Oswald bares his teeth, hefting the handgun in his grip. His cane has been abandoned in the fighting field, between the scattered and still desperately battling bodies. Oswald’s crouched behind a cover of wooden crates, righteous indignation burning in his chest.

Has it been long enough for Ed and Martin? He doesn’t know anymore. He hears the _thud_ of a hefty body impacting the ground, the telltale _thwap_ of a particular cape snapping in the air. Of all the _rude_ interruptions--Oswald had only gotten to one of them with his own weapon, before the dark shape of that _vigilante_ had made itself known. He should be grateful for the added distraction--there’s little to no chance that they’ll find Ed _now_. But...

He wanted to _crush_ them. The Bat’s presence was an _insult_ to his sovereignty and protection. Martin had always been _his_ to revenge.

But with Ed already assisting with this _mess_ , it hardly makes a difference now.

Still, his pulse is thudding angrily in his throat, desire for excessive bloodshed beating a static tempo in his ears.

~

There was blood in his mouth again, and never had it tasted so _good_ , so _pure_.

Which was ironic, since the man to whom it belonged was fetid, _vile_ , with empty crocodile eyes. Oswald was trembling, faintly, the emotional high carrying him to unfamiliar summits--the _violence_ tasted good, as it always had. And this one was a long time coming.

“Victor, Victor,” Oswald said chidingly. Victor Zsasz grinned at him, teeth bloodied.

He was a difficult man to pin down, but he certainly was not superhuman. Chains worked as well on him as they would on anyone.

“Yeah, Penguin?” Victor asked, rather cheerfully for his circumstances.

If Oswald were a little less astute, or if he were a little _more_ impulse-driven, he would have been annoyed, perhaps _devastated_ , at Victor’s lack of reaction. But Oswald knew Victor very well. He knew, when he had made this plan, that there was no chance of crying, or begging, or even any indication of pain. Victor had been a legend long before Oswald had met him personally.

Instead, Oswald eyed his unmoved countenance, and knew that he’d done as much to hurt Victor as anyone possibly could have.

After all, he _didn’t_ kill Carmine Falcone. And Victor had kowtowed to the woman who did.

“Martin is doing very well,” Oswald informed him, his own grin feral. “Here you are, at my disposal. All of your allies are dead. What a change from two years ago!”

“I dunno,” Victor said, “you definitely don’t have any more friends than you did then.”

“I never did, did I, Victor?” Oswald demanded, a little redundantly. Victor blinked, slowly, and Oswald exhaled sharply. “Only cronies and bootlickers and the odd true ally--as you once were.”

Victor shrugged, mock-modestly. “If you say so.”

Shifting his grip on the knife, Oswald dropped his hands on the armrests of Victor’s chair, leaning over him. Close--but not close enough to be in reach of Victor’s teeth; Oswald wasn’t _stupid_. “I could have forgiven you many things, Victor,” Oswald hissed. “I _have_ forgiven many things. But one thing I will _not_ tolerate are attacks toward my _son_.”

“Who?”

“ _Martin_!” Oswald snarled without thinking. Victor grinned blithely, and futilely Oswald gripped the armrests, struggling to tamp down on his rage. After a pause, he swallowed and dipped his head down for a moment, before lifting his head to meet Victor’s eyes once again.

“Charming,” Oswald whispered. “Victor, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that my emotions are _not_ a weakness. They are a _motivation_ , more than anything.”

“Hmm,” Victor hummed thoughtfully. He pursed his lips for a moment before continuing. “Nah, I don’t think so. I think they are a weakness.”

“Well, you’re _welcome_ to your opinion.”

“Thanks!” Victor said cheerfully.

“This has dragged on long enough,” Oswald said, primarily to himself. “I know I won’t get any more satisfaction from you, Victor.” He smiled, and it was painful, in a way. But more relieving than anything else. “So, this is goodbye. Forever.”

“It’s been real,” Victor said.

“It’s certainly been _something_ ,” Oswald agreed icily, lifting his knife to Victor’s neck.

And the high window along the north wall exploded. Glass shards rained down on them, and Oswald raised both his arms to shield his head and neck from the downpour. It took him only a fraction of a moment and the _woosh_ of a cape soaring through the air for Oswald to realize who the untimely visitor was. Oswald shifted on his feet, ready to make his escape, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Victor, gaze amused and unperturbed--

And for a fragment of a moment suspended in time, Oswald hesitated. Revenge was _there_ , in his _grasp._

Then his nostrils were flooded with the familiar scent of blood and sweat and mildew, that sickly closed airless prison-- _Arkham Asylum._

And he spun on his heel, shoving his knife into the hand of his hapless gorilla (who stuttered: “B-Boss?” in confusion) and snapped open the wire cutters attachment on his cane, freeing Victor Zsasz from his bonds in a heartbeat.

“ _Don’t forget this_!” Oswald snarled.

“We’re even,” Victor intoned.

In the ensuing gun-and-gadget fight, both of them escaped into the dark night, Gotham’s streets reeking of garbage and blood and the cries of the guilty and innocent alike.

~

His only other _real_ chance at revenge had been stolen out from under him by the Bat--he’ll be damned if he lets the man do the same again. Blood racing through his veins, he begins to rise to his feet from behind his shelter--

A heavy but small weight crashes into him and he falls back to the floor. The sounds of the battle cover the _thump_ but he still winces as he looks over at-- _Martin!_

_Dad!_ Martin signs. _Why are you still here? Is that the Batman?_

_Where is_ \-- Oswald begins to sign back, but his hands falter when he spots Ed army-crawling toward them, a disgruntled expression on his sweaty face. Oswald’s lip twitches. _I told him to get you out._

_I had to come find you._

Oswald _feels_ his face soften, Martin’s steadfast adoration and loyalty never failing to warm his heart. _My boy, you are too good to me._

Martin’s gaze drifts over Oswald’s shoulder, out toward the battlefield, and his eyes widen suddenly, his mouth dropping open. _I_ …

_Martin_ , Oswald signs. “ _Martin_ ,” Oswald hisses under his breath. Ed’s hand, sweaty and too-warm, lands on Oswald’s shoulder, and the larger man leans in too-close to whisper in his ear:

“ _Oswald, we’ve got to go_ now!”

Martin’s hand slips out of his.

“Mar--”

Martin rockets up to his feet and Oswald reaches out with desperate fingers to grasp his forearm, but Martin shakes free--

\--“ _Martin_!”--

\--and darts out into the fray.

Oswald’s heart lurches into his throat and he scrambles onto his knees, ignoring the familiar lancing pain that arcs through his side at the pressure. He grasps the edge of one of the crates and begins to push himself to his feet, but he’s stopped by a pair of arms wrapped around his torso.

“ _Let me go_!” Oswald snarls over his shoulder, as quietly as he can manage.

Ed’s face is tucked into Oswald’s shoulder, his breath hot on Oswald’s neck as he hisses: “We _can’t_. Not yet.”

“You _son of a bitch_ ,” Oswald snaps, but Edward drags him back down onto the floor and into his lap.

The sounds of the fighting begin to quieten, and if Oswald listens carefully, he can hear the staccato pad of Martin’s dress shoes against the cement floor.


	7. Restitution

The sounds of fighting have ceased. Edward holds Oswald in his arms, keeping him back behind the cover of the wooden crates. It’s risking too much, no matter how much Oswald wants to chase after Martin.

“The Bat will _kill_ him,” Oswald breathes sharply against Edward’s neck. Edward imagines he can feel the scrape of Oswald’s teeth along his skin. He swallows harshly.

Oswald’s body is hot and trembling against him, in a way that’s all-too-distracting given the circumstances. The fact that Oswald is demanding that Edward let him _go_ just barely manages to reign in Edward’s unfortunate reaction.

“ _He won’t_ ,” Edward breathes against Oswald’s temple. Oswald shudders against him and grips Edward’s bicep in an unforgivably harsh grasp.

“If he does--” Oswald growls. The sound and rumble of his chest sends a thrill racing up Edward’s spine.

“I promise he won’t.”

“How can you promise that?”

Edward grinds his teeth in frustration.

“Martin Cobblepot?”

Oswald jerks in Edward’s arms, almost breaking free. The name, spoken in the Bat’s harsh growl, sounds downright comical, but the humor is lost on Oswald.

There’s a long moment of silence. Even Martin’s footsteps have stopped.

“You got out on your own?” The Bat growls, his voice trending upward in pitch with surprise.

Oswald licks his lips.

“You haven’t seen your father?”

Edward’s hand is resting on Oswald’s left collarbone, underneath the layer of his suit jacket--he feels Oswald’s heartbeat pick up.

“Commissioner Gordon is on his way. He’ll take you home.” A pause. “What did you need?”

Oswald’s brow furrows.

“Your notebook?”

There’s a distant shuffle and a _thump_. “This one? You’re welcome.”

“ _Why...does the Bat know sign language_?” Oswald whispers.

Edward frowns.

There’s the sound of a cape snapping, and then silence. Oswald shifts against Edward, trying to push up and onto his haunches to--

A flurry of footsteps and a reckless cry of “GCPD!” heralds the entrance of the last man Edward currently wants to see. At least Oswald freezes again, waiting in silent anticipation as Jim Gordon continues: “Martin, you’re all right! Sorry, you know I still have trouble. Can you write me a note?”

In the dead silence of the warehouse, the sound of pen on paper seems suddenly deafening. Edward holds his breath.

“Yes, of course, we’ve got a car out front. We’ll bring you back home--to the Iceberg.” If it’s difficult for Jim to say, he manages to conceal the distaste quite well.

There are a few soft footsteps (Martin’s) and then Gordon’s voice is traveling toward the exit--or entrance--both?--as they make their way there. “Are you sure you’re all right? Did they try to hurt you at all? Your father would never forgive me.”

When Gordon’s voice has finally faded from their hearing, Oswald breaks away from Edward and slumps against the wooden crate, exhaustion in his every feature. He shuts his eyes and exhales, a muscle in his jaw tensing. Edward watches him. Perhaps too closely. When Oswald opens his eyes again, he blinks as if startled, his pale eyes meeting Edward’s with something unsure.

“Thank you for your assistance, Edward,” Oswald says finally, softly.

Edward swallows. “My pleasure.”

~

Martin Cobblepot was one of the students interviewed when his school principal died in a mysterious accident--Edward had watched it live. Oswald was busy, he knew, mopping up a mess in the theater district, so everything Martin was saying was unprompted--unless he had an eidetic memory or had memorized a complicated script.

“Martin was in his social studies class,” the news anchor explained. Apparently she could read ASL. Apparently most news stations hired anchors who did, once Oswald Cobblepot rose again to societal fame and Bruce Wayne followed. Signed comments became the vogue for Gotham elite, and the news stations followed suit.

“The students heard the noise and unfortunately the several closest to the open door stood up--Martin was one of those students--and saw the scene of the accident before their teacher could call them away. How are you feeling, Mr. Cobblepot?”

Edward flinched when she said the name--but it was directed at the boy. “Everyone was shaken,” the anchor translated, “but luckily the teacher knew what to do--she had the students all sit down, shut the door, and called both the school security line and 911. Did you meet any of the officers?”

Martin smiled for the first time, a sheepish smile. His head was tilted downward as he nodded, eyes wide and solemn, curls falling onto his forehead.

“Commissioner Gordon spoke to your class. He was a very nice man,” the news anchor said. “That’s wonderful! I don’t suppose that’s piqued your interest in the field?”

How did none of them see it?

It was Oswald’s grin, but--more _innocent_. More _pure_.

“Well that’s wonderful! I imagine your father thinks very highly of the field!” the news anchor chortled, flashing bright white teeth at the camera. In comparison to Martin’s, her grin seemed very flat, almost a baring of teeth.

“Indeed, what more could we want than a police force dedicated to protect and serve?” the anchor said. “You’re too young to remember, but I know many Gothamites thank your father for that! During his run as mayor, he made it a point to root out corruption--”

The TV blinked out. It took Edward a moment to realize that he was the one who had turned it off, the remote clenched in his shaking hand.

_How dare GBS so easily reference Oswald Cobblepot’s run as mayor when it’d ended in disgrace and destruction? How dare they joke about it when Oswald was running around, footloose and fancy free? How dare--how dare--_

He picked up his hat and placed it on his head even as he slammed the door to his shabby apartment shut behind himself.

~

Oswald takes a seat in the back of the car, as if Edward is his chauffeur. Edward isn’t sure if it bothers him or not, but it does allow him to tilt the overhead mirror so that he can surreptitiously observe Oswald, and the play of leftover fear and anxiety across his face.

“Why aren’t we moving?” Oswald demands crossly to himself, staring out the window.

Edward turns the key in the ignition and the car thrums to life underneath him. He rests his hand on the gear shift and slowly begins to drive out of the lot. Oswald’s gaze remains fixed pensively out the window, brows drawn. Edward alternates his gaze between the nearly-empty road and the rearview mirror, until his own moving mouth breaks the silence.

“Imagine you are locked in a dark room. How do you get out?”

Oswald blinks firmly, his eyes appearing to finally refocus as he stares up at Edward. His gaze is clear and incisive, his expression pointed.

“Ed,” Oswald says softly. “Pull over.”

“What? I’m--”

“Pull over,” Oswald repeats firmly. Edward does, pulling onto the shoulder of the road, uncertainty plucking a discordant melody across his nerves.

Oswald opens his car door and begins to climb out.

“Uh, Oswald?” Edward asks helplessly.

Oswald limps up beside the driver’s side door. Edward opens the door as he does, one leg dropping out on the pavement as if preparing to evacuate. Oswald steps forward and--

“Did you want to drive?”

\--grabs Edward by the lapel and drags him forward until their faces are centimeters apart.

“Stop imagining,” Oswald breathes against his lips, weirdly.

Edward blinks. “Oh, uh, yes, although you didn’t have to have me pull over to answer--”

And then Oswald presses his lips against Edward’s, hot and tasting like salty like sweat, pure, _terrifying_ , utterly unexpected. It’s over as soon as it begins, Oswald’s lips drifting out of Edward’s reach, the grip on his lapel still holding him in place.

“Drive me home, Ed,” Oswald whispers against his lips.

“Um, yeah, okay,” Edward agrees, and Oswald lets go of him with a slight shove and a smirk before shutting the car door and limping back to the backseat.

Edward licks his lips while he waits for Oswald to buckle himself back in. Then he drives.


End file.
